


Hysteria

by mementomoriarty



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:10:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mementomoriarty/pseuds/mementomoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Enjolras, Apollo, don’t—” Grantaire bit his tongue. He would not allow himself to beg, he had held onto that scrap of pride stubbornly, and even now, he could not find it in him to let go. He had closed his hand around that smallest shred of dignity, and he had forgotten how to release it. He held onto it. He couldn’t imagine how Enjolras might hate him if he were to stoop so low as to grovel. He would not beg, of that much he was certain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hysteria

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://xgrisgrisgrisx.tumblr.com/post/47028633795/so-i-got-a-bit-carried-away-how-can-he-not)  
> also posted [here](http://memento-mori-arty.tumblr.com/post/48655073045/xgrisgrisgrisx-so-i-got-a-bit-carried)  
> It was the first Les Misérables thing I wrote, and I'm not quite sure I like the voice/tone/thing it ended up being, but I got tired of messing with it. Enjoy~

Grantaire’s knees gave out from beneath him, as they were suddenly too weak to bear his weight any longer. He winced as he hit the ground with a low thud, though he did not cry out. He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. His lungs seemed to constrict, and he wondered briefly if he’d ever remember how to breathe again. It seemed unlikely.

“Joly!”

This couldn’t be happening. Everything around him slowed to a snail’s pace. The only sound was that of his heart pounding in his ears. Already his throat seemed to close, and his breathing came in short gasps.

“Enjolras, Apollo, don’t—” Grantaire bit his tongue. He would not allow himself to beg, he had held onto that scrap of pride stubbornly, and even now, he could not find it in him to let go. He had closed his hand around that smallest shred of dignity, and he had forgotten how to release it. He held onto it. He couldn’t imagine how Enjolras might hate him if he were to stoop so low as to grovel. He would not beg, of that much he was certain.

Blood coated his fingers as he pulled Enjolras’ head into his lap, trying to maintain pressure on the wounds. He was no doctor, but he knew the red that seeped through the space between his fingers had to be stopped. “No, no, no…” He muttered under his breath repeatedly before calling for Joly yet again. His voice sounded broken to his own ears, wild and despondent and nearing hysteria. Gently, as worshipful and reverently as if he were in church, he pushed the other man’s golden curls from his face. He desperately tried to convince himself that it was not his Apollo’s blood on his hands. Enjolras was not capable of something so human as death, surely, he was above such mortal trifles. Grantaire was fully aware that he was lying to himself, that there were bullets deep in the other man’s chest, that Enjolras would willingly give his life for his lover, that gods could die just as easily as any man. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. Grantaire, who never dared hope, found himself making the mistake of hoping. Grantaire knew these things were real. Still, he refused to believe them.

This couldn’t be happening.

Enjolras shifted in his arms, making a low sound of pain and taking a breath that rattled in his lungs. His skin burned to touch, and Grantaire couldn’t help but wonder how long he had been lying there, how long he had been in pain, how long he’d been dying. Alone. With nothing but the thought that he was sacrificing himself for something far greater than himself. Without giving the drunkard a second thought, without wondering what his sacrifice would do to his friends, without wondering how it might destroy Grantaire.

Grantaire, faced with what he knew were simply truths, broke.

“Please.” He whimpered, pulling Enjolras closer and pressing his forehead to the other’s cheek. This couldn’t be happening. He lifted his head and screamed for Joly again, his voice cracking. The others tried to get him away, to find Joly, to mend their own wounds if they could, but he could no longer see or hear them. There was only Grantaire and the blood soaking through his clothes and the man whose breathing was growing more ragged and shallow with each passing second. He snarled vicious insults to those who came near. Why were they standing doing nothing when their leader was dying in his arms? Why did they look sad, as if he’d already died? Why had they built the godforsaken barricade in the first place? Surely they had known that this was the only outcome. Hadn’t he told them it was useless? Hadn’t he warned them that they were throwing their lives away for a dream? Why did they have to be such fools? Why did Enjolras have to be such a fool? Why was Grantaire such a fool so as to believe in him?

When he next looked up, Joly was kneeling next to the wounded man with a look of determination on his face that Grantaire had never seen before. “Please.” Grantaire repeated, and he didn’t know who he was begging any longer—Enjolras or the medic. Joly gave him a sympathetic look that only succeeded in making Grantaire hate himself even more, but said nothing. Still, Grantaire begged. “Joly, I need him, I need him…” He closed his eyes, hot tears mingling with the blood on his cheek and dripping down the bridge of his nose. A pale red tear landed silently on Enjolras’ cheek, and Grantaire carefully wiped it away with his thumb, not wishing to mar the statue’s perfect image in any way, though he hardly noticed. His sun—his source of light and his hope—was going out. The only man that he had ever dared believed in was dying.

Joly pressed one hand to the bullet wounds in their leader’s chest, while the other expertly undid the buttons of his waistcoat, but he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it was useless. Still, he fought. This man would not stop fighting for the freedom of the people and Joly would not stop fighting for this man’s life. Enjolras demanded loyalty from his friends and they willingly gave it, but Joly suspected that their chief had not anticipated the amount of devotion they would give. Particularly that of their resident cynic. Grantaire would always follow Enjolras, but now the chief was going where even Grantaire could not follow.

Grantaire did not notice the exact moment when Enjolras stopped breathing and his sun burnt out. It was only when Joly’s fingers quit moving, when everything had gone so suddenly still, when Grantaire looked up and saw the tears in the medic’s eyes, along with a pain he couldn’t name, that he acknowledged the one truth that would absolutely crush him: Enjolras was dead. There would be no more energetic speeches about democracy, no more of the leader’s fire or his passion. His light had been extinguished.

“No, no, no!”

This couldn’t be happening.

Surely this was a nightmare that he would wake up from, in a cold sweat, with his curls sticking to his forehead, and the smell of stale alcohol and vomit filling his nostrils. It was a nightmare brought on by his drunkenness. It could not have been reality.

This couldn’t be happening.

And yet.

Enjolras was dead. He gave his life for what he believed was worth dying for, as he’d wished. Grantaire, on the other hand, had lost the only thing he’d deemed worth living for.

“No, Joly, please!”

Joly shook his head solemnly. There was nothing more that could be done. The chief was gone.

Grantaire’s heart shattered, and he screamed.


End file.
